Men With No Names
by Son of Caliban
Summary: Jack Morrison was a dead man, twice over. Jesse McCree had cheated death many times. Brigitte Lindholm had watched everyone she loved die before her. Olivia Colomar was no stranger to outrunning the pale rider. But after everything they know is lost in the wake of their greatest failure, it falls to them to rise from the ashes and finish the job. After all; old habits die hard.
1. 1: Dead Man

Men With No Names

Jesse McCree had certainly had better months.

His chest still throbbed when he exerted himself, breath coming at a much slower pace than he was used to. His ribs felt strained, not surprising that he had been thrown from the top of four story building only a month ago. Only by the virtue of his mechanical left arm and a surprisingly soft wall had he slowed his fall enough to avoid death upon impact. The entire arm was still battered from the elbow down, most of the paintwork scraped off, leaving dull metal open to the eye. But he had survived.

And now here he was, sitting alone in a diner somewhere along eastern edge of Arizona, hundreds of miles from the fall that had nearly taken his life. It was a quaint little place, quiet and homey. The kindly old woman manning the counter hadn't asked a single question about his scars, outfit or general state of disrepair but had instead directed him to sit wherever he pleased and signal her when he was ready to order. He was nursing a steaming cup of coffee and considering trying to eat something when the doorbell ringed.

Footsteps, but odd. Metallic clanks on the black and white tile of the floor, slow and steady. Behind them, shrouded by their volume, softer pattering, almost like bare feet. Jesse didn't turn; he preferred to let strangers keep their peace. The old lady began to say something, but stopped suddenly, as if in shock. Might've been an Omnic; they were a rarer sight in secluded regions like this one. More footsteps, the doorbell ringing again; somebody else, wearing boots of some sort.

"C-can I getcha anything, sir?" the old lady asked, that twang in her voice shaken, a fearful quaver to her tone. "Ma'ams?"

There was no response but a softer mechanical sound that sounded quite a bit like a gun being cocked, and Jesse sighed. He was not in the mood to get in a gunfight, especially not with an omnic. But he rose and stood, hand going to his gunbelt, fingers grazing the worn pearl grip of his Peacekeeper. He turned, poncho swaying with the motion, and stared down the pair.

And then he froze, because he was looking at a dead man.

"Jesse." That voice… harsh, rasping, the voice of a man who had seen far too much and lived far too long for the dangers he surrounded himself with.

White hair, close to the scalp in a buzz cut. A face more a patchwork of scars than a cohesive human expression, the most evident a thick pink line splitting the forehead in two. Lips, pale and dry, twisted in a half-scowl. There were no eyes, just a horizontal orange visor, edged in dull steel that Jesse realized was bonded to the skin around it. A body that was more machine than man; orange prosthetic arms, bulky and strong; legs mechanical below the knee, and a head sheathed in steel leaving only the scalp and face open to sight.

He had two women with him. One was small and dark and grinning at Jesse with a mischevious look that reminded him uncomfortably of Ash in their younger days. Her hair was shorn from half her head, a series of wires attached to the scalp that intermittently lit up a soft violet shade. The other was taller, muscular, with red hair tied back in a tall ponytail. Freckled, and looking at Jesse with some sort of preemptive apologetic smile.

The man stepped forward, and Jesse's hand rose from his gun and towards him. He needed to know if this was real or a delusion brought on by a lingering concussion. The man caught his forearm in a strong, cold grip. Real. Present. Physical.

Jesse shuddered.

"Jack." he said, and the word sounded like madness on his tongue. "You're…"

"Alive." Jack Morrison, former Strike Commander of Overwatch and vigilante justice-seeker, finished Jesse's sentence for him. "It was close."

"And…" Jesse's eyes went up, scanned the two women. He knew the redhead, and his eyes narrowed. "You… you're Brigitte. Torbjorn's little girl."

She winced, a flash of misery so raw and fresh it made Jesse cringe in sympathy showing on her face for just a moment before disappearing again. She swallowed, hard, and Jesse knew his suspicions were correct. It was gone after a moment though, and she returned to her previous expression of apology.

"And you…" he looked at the other girl, who just gave him a smile and stepped closer to Jack, leaning against one of his arms.

"She's half the reason I'm alive." Jack said, nodding, before glancing over his shoulder at Brigitte. "And she's the other half."

Jesse let his eyes wander across all three, really taking them in. Jack was in a tank top and shorts, a curiously casual look ruined by his military-grade prosthetics. Brigitte was similarly dressed, and the the third girl was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, both in black. They all looked worn and tired, bags under both the girl's eyes, and Jack was probably only standing because he was a stubborn sonuvabitch who didn't understand the idea of 'recovery time'.

"Take a seat." he offered, gesturing to his booth. "You all look like hell."

It took a moment for everyone to end up seated, Jack insisting on being closest to the door and the other girl sitting next to him, while Jesse ended up opposite Jack with Brigitte beside him. The old woman approached them tentatively, but Jesse gave her a grin and she smiled weakly as she laid out three more menus.

"Water." Jack said, while the two women began browsing their own menus, Brigitte getting coffee with entirely too much sugar and the mystery woman requesting cola.

Jesse let them sit in peace for a minute, Brigitte folding her hands on the table and letting her posture slacken out while the mystery woman drummed her fingers atop the lacquered wooden surface. Jack just sat, that horizontal orange bar scanning back and forth across the empty diner.

"How many staff?" he asked, voice low, and Jesse sighed.

"The lady, and somebody cooking in the back." he said. "How did you find me?"

"This is exactly the sort of place you would go to hide." Jack said. "We rode Route 66 and followed tips. You aren't exactly inconspicuous; you ride a refurbished Harley and dress up like a gunslinger from the old movies. Plenty of people had seen you, and we saw your bike outside."

Jesse felt a twinge of annoyance at that; he had thought he was being subtle, travelling by night and sticking to rural areas, stopping in towns as little as possible except to sleep in motels for a few hours at a time. But he had to admit; Jack was right in accusing him of being predictable.

"Alright, that… that makes sense." McCree admitted, nodding once. "Why did you go huntin' for me, though? There's… there's not much left for us, Jack."

"There's always justice to be done." Jack replied, shaking his head. "Talon can't get away with this; not after everything else they've done. You know that as well as I do."

Jesse gave the other two a glance each; Brigitte was staring at the table's surface with that same thousand yard stare he'd seen on men and women who'd seen far too much for anybody, let alone a woman her age. The mystery woman was just leaning against Jack, smirking at Jesse, and the man was left with multiple questions as to just what she thought she was doing and whether or not she knew what it looked like.

"Jack…" Jesse's voice was low, hesitant. "What are you planning?"

Jack looked at him with that visor, a cyclopean orange eye like a band of magma over his face, and his lips twisted in a scowl.

"What I've always done," he said. "Saving the world… whether or not it wants me to."

Jesse didn't get an opportunity to reply to that statement, because moments afterwards the doorbell rang again and the old lady greeted the new customer from behind the counter, where she was putting their drinks on a tray.

"Good afternoon, ma'am…" Jesse stiffened up when he recognized the voice, and his hand went to his gunbelt for the second time in just a few minutes.

The woman standing by the door was tall, almost as tall as Jack but half as wide, and was looking directly at Jesse with a savage, toothy grin. She had the dark skin of a central-African with white hair from some godforsaken experiment that Jesse knew nothing about, pale brown eyes that glimmered with savage delight at the sight of him. Her dark red duster coat was a peculiar sight to get used to, but Jesse knew exactly how she had obtained it and how many men had died so she could take it from its previous owner.

Her hands were on her hips, and Jesse could see she still wore her knives in the open where most would hang a gun..

"Hey there, Jesse…" she said, sweet as sugar and cold as ice. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Jesse rose from his booth and drew, cocking before he cleared leather and firing once immediately. The old lady screamed, and the woman in red just stood there as the bullet flew, blowing her brains out against the glass door. She fell to the ground and Jesse turned when he realized there was no blood or brain matter being blown, before a fist crashed into his jaw and he was knocked awry.

Jack was rising from his seat, while Brigitte was snapped from her stupor and turned. Hands went to what were likely various concealed weapons, but Jesse was too focused on not being slit open to notice. He caught one of the woman's hands with his robotic one, and tried to put his peacekeeper against her gut. She forced the gun away with a palm to the wrist before wrapping her fingers around his throat, picking him up, and putting him through the table.

Wood splintered and snapped, and he was pretty sure one of his freshly healed ribs cracked again as he was slammed against the tile floor. His peacekeeper slipped away from his hand, and the woman kicked it away. Then it was her turn to take a hit as Jack drove a metal fist into her jaw and knocked her a good four feet away. She spat blood and _giggled_ before ducking a follow up punch and slamming a fist into Jack's stomach.

Her knuckles bruised on impact and Jesse saw blood spurt from a broken finger before Jack grabbed her by the throat and hauled her straight up into the air, suspending her in his grip. She choked and spat, undamaged hand grabbing at his prosthetics, before she stabbed a knife into the elbow joint. The fingers splayed open and she fell to the ground, rolling backwards and rising to her feet.

Brigitte was out of the booth at that point, standing behind Jack, and Jesse was getting back up. Jack tore the knife from his elbow, closing his fist again and snarling like an enraged animal. The woman chuckled.

"You've really pissed someone off now, Jesse." she said. "Same goes for your unlucky little friends here. You're each worth a few million, and it's an open contract. Everybody I know is on the hunt… shame I got to you first. Ashe'll be real upset I broke her favourite boy-toy without her…"

Jack had apparently had enough of hearing the woman's taunts and laughter, lunging forward with a right cross that would have made any boxer proud. The result was a monstrous crack as the woman's jaw broke, followed by her limp form disappearing as it fell to the ground. Jesse tried to speak but coughed, and when he looked at his hand he saw flecks of red.

Shit.

"She's got some sort of displacement tech!" Brigitte warned, looking this way and that, before a booted foot slammed into the pit of her knee, driving her off her feet.

Jack whirled, and that visor of his began glowing like a lantern before he simply backstepped away from a knife strike, catching the wrist in one metal hand. He twisted hard and the wrist snapped, the woman in red gasping in pain before Jack's other fist crashed into her face in a straight jab. Her nose went off like a bomb, a blast of red coating Jack's knuckles before another punch crashed into her mouth and something, perhaps multiple somethings, cracked and splintered as her front teeth were demolished.

"Enough!" he bellowed, turning and throwing her to the floor before stomping hard, a metal foot cracking ribs and pinning her to the ground. "Who put out the hit?"

The woman in red was coughing up blood a little too much to actually answer the question, and Jesse grabbed Jack by the shoulder, trying to pull him away. Jack shrugged his hand off and reached down, grabbing the woman by the lapels and hauling her upright, then into the air. The old lady was screaming something fierce, and even Jesse went wide-eyed when Jack threw the woman through the picture window over their ruined booth, demolishing the pane and leaving a glistening pool of shattered glass underneath the woman's bloodied form.

Jack stepped out through the destroyed window, glass shards crunching under metallic feet, and knelt down beside the fallen woman, one hand clutching her unbroken wrist.

"Who put out the hit?" the demand was spoken in a low growl, and when the woman didn't answer his other hand came up and snapped the woman's pinky finger like a twig. "Four fingers left. Who put out the hit?"

The woman spat blood in Jack's face, and he didn't so much as wince before snapping her ring finger.

"Three fingers left." he said. "Who put out the hit?"

"Dunnooooo…" the woman rasped, voice gurgling in her throat, and Jack snapped her middle finger.

"Two fingers left." he said. "Who put out the hit?"

"Jack!" Jesse grabbed his shoulder, trying to pull away. "For God's sake, she doesn't know!"

"She knows," Jack said, grabbing the woman's index finger. "Two fingers left. Who. Put. Out. The. Hit?"

The woman coughed up a wad of bloody mucous and grinned, teeth stained a pinkish red by all the gore in her mouth and throat. Jack snarled at her, and snapped the finger with an almost gentle twist of his wrist.

"Thumb." Jack said, and Jesse just watched, hearing footsteps behind him. "Who put out the hit? Was it Talon?"

"I…" the woman began to speak, then coughed up some more blood, then spoke again. "Don't… know… money… was anony… anon… anonymous…"

"Wrong answer." Jack snapped her thumb, and then someone with red hair tackled him to the floor.

"Stop!" the demand was a cry of anger and something else, something Jesse really didn't want to dig into, and Jack was left staring up at an angry Brigitte straddling his chest, pinning him to the ground. "That's enough, Jack! She doesn't know!"

"She does." Jack replied, reaching up to shove her off. "She knows. She's not the sort to take an anonymous job."

Jesse looked at the woman in red who, despite spending the last minute being utterly brutalized by an angry cyborg, was still smiling that big predatory grin. He winced at the site of her face; her nose was a lump of crimson flesh, and her smile was missing several teeth, while the others were cracked and splintered into jagged messes.

Brigitte was insistent on remaining atop Jack, holding his arms back with her own. It was a losing battle, but Jesse was still impressed by the girl's strength. Were those tears in her eyes? He hoped not; that would make this even worse.

She leaned in towards Jack and whispered something in his ear, and Jack fell still for a moment. Then his lips twisted into a scowl and he rolled, throwing her off.

"No." he said. "But this isn't just for him."

"And what about the rest?" Brigitte demanded, rolling onto her back. "What about all your friends? What about Genji, and Gerard, and… and Reinhardt? Would they want this?"

Jack ignored her, stalking back towards the woman in red, and Jesse watched and listened as Brigitte said the last four words Jack would ever want to hear.

"Would Angela want this?" Brigitte asked, and Jack froze, still as a stone.

Jesse watched as a series of emotions flickered over his old friend's face like a slideshow; anger, misery, anger again, even deeper misery, nostalgia, more anger, then finally, understanding. Even without eyes it was easy to read Jack Morrison; his entire face was a window to his soul. It had been Gerard who was hard to read. Jack… Jack was an open book once you knew what to look for.

"No." he said, voice soft. "She… she wouldn't want… this."

It was like watching the old soldier be killed yet again, for the third time of his life, fists clenched and jaw set, both slowly loosening until he was almost swaying in the breeze. Jesse put a hand on his shoulder, and Jack let it remain.

"I need your help, Jesse." he admitted, voice low. "Everyone else… everyone else is gone. It's just us now."

"I…" It was Jesse's turn to hesitate. "I know. At least, I figure I knew."

He smiled, though, despite it all, before stepping back. Brigitte stood beside him, a look of steadfast determination on her face. The mystery woman Jesse still couldn't place was standing behind them a little, still grinning.

"So…" Jesse saluted for the first time in years. "What are your orders, commander?"

Brigitte followed suit, and Jack just stared at them for a moment, the ghost of smile creeping across his face before he nodded.

"We're going to finish the mission." Jack said, looking over at the fallen woman, whose smile had faded and turned into a look of confusion. "We're going to avenge our fallen comrades. We're going to get the job done once and for all."

He paused, and looked back at Jesse and Brigitte, and Jesse knew the next words before they came out of his mouth.

"We're going to save the world." Jack said. "And that means one thing."

Another pause, a glance at the woman, and Jack's fists clenched again.

"We're going to destroy Talon." he said. "Whatever it takes."

"Understood, sir." Jesse nodded, before realizing that they had attracted a crowd of onlookers, some fifteen-odd locals all staring in awe or horror at the sight before them. "Maybe give us the plan after we get the hell out of here?"

Jack looked around and noticed the same thing, before looking back at Jesse and nodding.

"Lead the way, Lieutenant." he ordered.

 **iiiiiiiiii**

Jesse led the way, all right. He led the way straight down the highway a good fifty miles, after turning in the would-be assassin to the local sheriff without so much as a 'how do you do' and leaving a few hundred in cash for the diner before taking off. Jesse wanted to clear the county by the end of the day, and they made such good time they were two counties away by the time the sun began to fall.

At that point Jesse pulled his bike over into the parking lot of a motel, the sign out front boasting that it was going to be the only one for the next hundred miles. Jack and the girls, loaded up together in a beat up truck that kicked and spat whenever the old soldier touched the brakes, followed him in. The four probably made a hell of a sight crossing towards the motel's office, wearing their beat up clothes and possessing no less than four artificial limbs total if Jack's two leg-halves counted as a whole.

Their approach was viewed by a young woman sitting behind the counter, who didn't seem to recognize the three of them in any way but did seem to realize they were potentially trouble. She had a pensive look about her, not helped when Jack almost broke the door opening it with his glitching hand, which had begun spasming due to the knife wound in his elbow.

"Two rooms for one night," Jesse said, giving the girl an easy smile. "My friends haven't had the best day, so the best rooms you have, please."

The woman nodded slowly, reaching under her desk for the keys. The transaction was quick and painless, and Jesse paid her a little extra in exchange for some confidentiality and privacy. The driveway was almost empty, barring a battered old hovercar that looked about ready for the junkyard itself. It was only after Jesse and Jack had gotten themselves into the room (and Jack had subjected it to a five-point security sweep and bug check) that they relaxed.

"So…" Jesse hung his hat on the hook near the door, giving the same courtesy to his gun-belt. Jack just sat on the bed nearer to the door, hands folded together in front of him.

"You gonna tell me what the plan is?" Jesse asked, sitting down heavily in an overstuffed armchair with a groan of pain as his ribs flexed. "Where we're headed? 'Cause the way I see it, we're gonna have a hell of a time doin' much of anything being outgunned and outnumbered the way we are."

Jack was silent for a moment, possibly gathering his thoughts. His fingers remained interlaced, and that orange visor slowly traced up to look square at Jesse. Jack looked like living hell; his face was scarred, bruised and beaten, like the rest of him. Even his comparatively new mechanical parts seemed worn and weary.

"I have a plan." he said finally, looking at the floor again. "It's a bad one. Too many variables, too much relying on luck and timing. We don't even have the resources we need yet, and it's on a strict schedule. But it's all we've got."

Jack was never one to share the full details of a plan, so Jesse didn't bother asking. What he did do was think on that; one thing stuck out to him. Something he may be able to help with… though part of him was hesitant to even bring it up. The solution… it was one he didn't really want to go through with.

"Resources." Jesse repeated. "What do we need?"

"Money." Jack said. "Ammunition. A vehicle; something that flies, fast."

Jesse sighed, looking at the floor himself for a moment. The sound of crickets chirping signalled the end of the day, and he rolled his organic shoulder before closing his eyes and biting the bullet.

"I can get us all of it." he said, and he could hear whatever metal doohickey Jack now called a neck whir as he looked up. "I… I know someone. But I don't know if she'll be willing to talk to me at all. Might come to bullets… with her, it usually does."

"Who are we talking about?" Jack asked, and Jesse sighed again.

"My old partner," he began, looking up. "Her name's Elizabeth. But never call her that; she goes by Ashe."

"Ashe…" Jack scowled. "Deadlock."

"Best I can do." Jesse replied, wincing as he leaned back. "You say we need money, ammo, and somethin' that flies. Deadlock has all three. But I'll need to find a way to meet Ashe."

"Can't you just call her?" Jesse felt a flash of indignation at that statement.

"Hell, Jack, I don't just keep in contact with all my old criminal buddies," he retorted. "Besides, Ashe and I… I burned that bridge a long time ago. Most in Deadlock still know me, fear me, even respect me. But her…"

He smiled wistfully, thinking back to memories of white hair in desert sunlight, plump red lips meeting his own amidst the haze of gunsmoke and dust… then he felt that throbbing ghostly pain in his shoulder, and he closed his eyes as the smile turned into a frown.

"She was different." Jack finished his sentence. "I know your history, McCree. It was all in your file back when… when Gabriel recruited you. Will she talk to you?"

Jesse nodded.

"She will." he said. "Probably shoot me after, but… it's fair."

"How do we find her?" Jack asked.

"I know a guy Deadlock uses for intelligence." Jesse replied. "I'll send him something, a tip. There's a train, southbound through Deadlock Gorge in just a few days. They'll hit it if I send them the tip that there's something real valuable on there."

Jack's fists clenched and Jesse smirked, raising a hand.

"Relax, sheriff Morrison," he said. "The train belongs to Talon. Or at least, it's their stuff being shipped. Crews nothing but bots, not even Omnics. Completely clean. We do some damage to Talon, get ourselves a chat with Ashe, and maybe even get some of that ammo you wanted from the train."

Jack's fists unclenched again, and he nodded once.

"How long to Deadlock Gorge?" he asked.

"Two days if we ride all day." Jesse said.

"We leave at dawn." Jack said. "Tell the girls."

 **IIIII/Author's Note/IIIII**

 **Welcome to a vaguely pretentious exercise in doing my favourite thing in writing; destroying everything, killing almost everyone and making the survivors pick up the pieces and save the world... or die trying.**

 **I don't know much about the Overwatch fanfiction community, besides the basics that presumably everybody here has played the game and probably consumed most of, if not all, the third-party media. In that case, I must make the somewhat shameful admission that while I've read most of the comics, watched all the shorts and played a fair bit of the game (Moira main represent) I haven't consumed every single piece of content involved with Overwatch. So if I take any small liberties with lore and backstories it's likely because either a) I don't actually know and am making something up or b) I genuinely can't find any info on it.**

 **I'm not going to demand you be gentle with reviews, but please be constructive with your criticisms and tell me what you like, don't like, and hope to see. This story's pretty well plotted-out in my head, but there's plenty to be changed and adjusted depending on feedback. I'll also make an effort to reply to most longer reviews (or the funny ones) in PMs, but I won't do it in my Author's Notes; I find that just ends up being obnoxious for people who just want to read the story and usually pads word counts. This is probably the longest Author's Note this story will have.**

 **Well, with all that out of the way, welcome to Men With No Names, named so for the spectacular Heavy Horses song Pale Rider, which was used in the Reunion cinematic and has been playing on repeat for the last half-hour or so and fuelled most of that last scene with Jack and Jesse. I recommend it highly. Fight scene with the unnamed assassin (don't worry, she has a role beyond this) brought to you by Castle Vania's John Wick Medley.**

 **Hope you all had a good time, and hope you keep reading. Until then, sayonara.**


	2. 2: High Noon

Men With No Names

"I don't know if I should be worried that you planned all of this in two days."

Jesse almost sighed when he heard Brigitte speak up from behind him; he had no quarrel with the girl, but she had gotten quite talkative in the last few hours, apparently overcoming whatever trauma had rendered her almost mute for two days straight. Jesse turned to look at her, not yet replying; he had figured out in just a few short minutes that Brigitte usually didn't finish her observations in a single sentence. Her orange and grey armour whirred and clanked as she gathered her thoughts, putting a hand on her hip.

"I mean… I knew you did this before." she continued, looking up at him on his seat atop a small flat top rock. "You were a criminal. Reinhardt told me all about it. But… I thought you left that behind when you joined Overwatch."

"Way I figure it, your godfather left a few details outta his tall tales," Jesse replied, grinning at her. "I was never part of Overwatch, really. I was more of a Blackwatch fella; Overwatch wrote my paychecks, but I wasn't on the team proper-like. Wasn't even in the paperwork most of the time; I did the hush-hush stuff they couldn't have clutterin' up the papers. Kind of stuff that made us all look bad."

He looked skyward for a moment, taking in the late-morning sun and closing his eyes. He could see them all; Genji, sword in hand, with his cold stares and silent act. Moira, prim and proper and wholly disapproving of his roughneck nature. And Gabriel, grim and brooding Gabriel, always overworked, always needing a few more hours of sleep and another meal, never willing to actually give himself the necessary breaks.

"Guess you could say I never really stopped bein' a criminal," he continued, looking back to her. "Difference was, I got my paycheck from someone else instead'a writin' it myself. Besides that… it was more of the same, really. Guess I was shootin' at the bad guys, with Blackwatch, instead of security bots and cops."

Brigitte looked disappointed, and Jesse wasn't sure if it was disappointment at him, at Reinhardt, at Blackwatch, or at Overwatch for letting Blackwatch exist. He hated to shatter that happy little worldview of hers, but… it had been shattered a month and a bit ago, when she saw the face of her father's past herself, for the first time.

And saw her father's face for the last time, if Jesse wanted to get morbid about it all.

"I… they had spoken of Blackwatch before…" Brigitte swallowed. "You worked with… Reyes. Genji. The… the scientist too. Moira."

"Yep." McCree gave her a thumbs up. "One big dysfunctional family unit. Hell of a time we had; Blackwatch wrote its own rules. We weren't beholden to any man or country. Only the greater good, though I got no idea what the hell that meant."

Brigitte nodded once, though Jesse wasn't sure she really understood. That was fine; most people didn't. Genji had, though; it was good to catch up with that wily old ninja again, even if he'd changed a fair bit since Jesse'd last seen him. Now… now Jesse just hoped he was still kicking. Woulda been a shame to lose a man like that. He would be damn good to have for a mission like this.

"Blackwatch…" Brigitte said, quiet. "What was it like? Working with… with Reyes and Moira. What were they like? Before… they joined Talon?"

"Well…" Jesse leaned back, pulling a cigar out of the satchel at his hip and slipping it between his teeth, before grabbing his light. "Hell of a story, that. Long one too. Figure it's the sort to be told when we've got plenty o' time. Another time; our train's due real quick now. Then we've got a whole lot of business to do."

"We're with you." Brigitte told him, nodding with the same resolute self-assurance her mentor had possessed in spades. "This will work."

"It'd better." Jesse said, hearing the sound of the train following it's magnetic tracks, that thunder of a large object moving quickly. "Get low now. That armour of yours workin' right?"

"Better than I expected." she replied, tapping one pauldron. "None of the joints are sticking and the shield seems stable."

Jesse gave her another thumb's up, as the distant roar of the train growing louder as it came closer. They were overlooking a trestle over the gorge proper; prime positioning for a derailment and ambush. With storage crates being so damned sturdy nowadays, most of the cargo would survive. Jesse saw movement amongst the base of one of the trestle's primary support beams, and signalled to Brigitte to duck down. They were positioned on a clifftop about eighty feet up from where they needed to be, but they had a solution for getting down.

A few moments passed, and the train was crossing the trestle. For a moment, there was a roar of sound, then an even louder bang as something big exploded. The trestle came down hard, and with it the train, cars splitting from each other as they were suddenly subjected to total freefall. Jesse watched it fall, admiring for a moment the clean efficiency of it; the centre of the train landed smooth and even, several cars hanging from wires and spars of jagged metal. Movement again, quick and nimble, after a moment for the wreckage to settle.

Jesse gestured for Brigitte to move, and she attached her rappelling line to the hook they had hammered into the rock almost an hour ago, Jesse following suit. Their descent was hasty, shielded from sight by the smoke and dust rising from the corpse of the fallen train. Jesse grinned as he slid downwards, metal hand immune to the friction burns flesh would have suffered. The two hit the ground hard, but unhurt, before unhooking their lines and turning towards the wreckage proper.

"Remember, you stay behind me, and cover my backside." Jesse reminded the Swedish squire, giving her armoured thigh a smack. "I'd rather not be shot up if I can manage it, and you're half of that managin'. So keep your eyes open and your mouth shut while I try to convince my old flame that she should hand me a carrier jet, millions in cash and an armory."

Brigitte didn't reply to that verbally, but she did give him a smile and a pat on the shoulder, which was a damned site more reassuring than any measure of words as far as Jesse was concerned.

And so peacekeeper holstered at his side, spurs jingling softly, he walked into the smoke to greet his oldest enemy; and the woman he'd once considered asking to be his wife.

 **iiiiiiiiii**

Vicente Rodriguez was not a man who considered himself particularly courageous or cowardly; he preferred to take measure of a situation, riding along tracks and rails as he pleased but always keeping the end destination in mind and analysing the route before him. So when his latest ride was dropped from its bridge in a wash of fire and smoke, he didn't panic; instead, he used the trailing wires of the falling train to swing to a relatively safe landing amidst a pile of twisted metal that was likely all that remained of the fallen cars.

In one hand he clenched a sawed off shotgun, a single barrel he'd lovingly named Mia and sworn to love until his dying days. In the other, he had an exact copy of that weapon named Josefa, whom he had also sworn eternal love to. Both were named for women with whom he'd made the exact same mistake, and both were just about as dangerous when provoked.

Vicente was concerned with a single issue at that point; surviving the current mess and escaping with his own life intact. This wasn't the first time he'd been suddenly and very nearly killed by an explosion, though this one hadn't quite put him out of a job and killed both of his life's greatest regrets (and triumphs) in a hail of fire and shattered concrete. So Vicente took stock of the situation, as was his forte, and realized almost immediately that there was a man walking through the smoke.

The man was tall and lanky, wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of ill-fitting fatigue pants held up by a very tight black belt. In one hand he held a double-barrelled shotgun, and the other was empty. His face was mostly obscured by a green bandana, upon which was written a word Vicente had hoped to never read again.

Deadlock.

Vicente scurried away through the smoke, abandoning his current cover for a more bulky crate further back and away from the body of the wreckage. The man had apparently spotted him, however, given that he hefted his shotgun in two hands and began pointing its barrel in Vicente's general direction. So Vicente improvised a solution, holstering Josefa and grabbing a rock at his feet.

He threw it to the side, where it made a healthy clattering amidst some other boxes similar to his own, and the man turned towards the new sound, giving Vicente the opportunity to rise and shoot him with Mia.

Mia clicked loudly, and Vicente suddenly remembered that he hadn't actually taken the time to load his chosen weapon.

The man whirled and fired, but the recoil of his own weapon seemed to knock him off balance. Vicente watched him tumble to the floor, the pellets from his weapon ricocheting off of Vicente's cover, and then Vicente grabbed his backup blackjack from his belt and rushed the man, clubbing him in the head as hard as he could. A loud clank as his weapon dented the man's helmet, and then he fell still with a low groan.

"Many apologies, friend," Vicente said, before grabbing the shotgun. "But I am afraid I will need this."

Then a ghost from Vicente's past walked out of the smoke as well, and Vicente froze when Jesse McCree looked him dead in the eye, shocked, then grinned and shushed him with one finger before walking right by him. Then a very beautiful young woman with gleaming red hair clad in clanking armour followed Jesse away, giving Vicente a little wave and a blush, and Vicente watched them both go with shock only to shrug, pocket the fallen man's wallet and turned to run.

He hadn't wanted any part of Overwatch affairs in years, since they had taken from him both his daughter and his wife. He would not be changing that now.

 **iiiiiiiiii**

When the love of her life walked back into Ashe's life, it was exactly how she had imagined it.

Her brain, her stupid, hormone addled brain, had dreamt up a hundred different means by which Jesse McCree would return to her. Some were violent, some were heroic, some were downright _disgustingly_ sugar sweet, but all of them had involved a slow walk through smoke, usually gunsmoke or the smoke of a motorcycle, before giving her that trademark roguish grin and a 'sorry I'm late' before sweeping her off her feet and carrying her to either a bed or a bar… or any other flat, mildly comfortable surface upon which they could-

"Howdy, Ashe." That twanging voice broke her reverie-turned-fantasy and returned her to the present, where Jesse goddamn McCree was smiling at her after walking from a cloud of smoke. "Sorry about the wait."

The men and women of Ashe's gang all looked to her, either in shock or in expectation, then looked back to him, then back to her again. Bob stepped up beside her, staring right at Jesse with his omnic equivalent of wide eyed shock. Ashe steadied herself, eyes narrowing. She had to keep it all under control. Deadlock expected her to stay calm, collected...

"Jesse McCree…" she said the word slowly, deliberately giving it her over the top drawl, before giving him a downright wicked grin. "Been a while. You said you'd write."

Jesse took a moment to light himself a cigarette, and her men took up positions around him in the midday sun, weapons in hand but not yet aimed. They were smarter than that. She noted that Gilly was missing, which didn't surprise her; that boy was as thick as mud and about as quick to react to anything new.

"Well, I have been pretty busy…" he flexed the fingers on his mechanical hand, and she felt a pang of guilt in her chest as they whirred and hummed softly. "Got straight with the law, saved the world… you know how it is."

"But here you are…" Ashe looked him dead in the eye. "What do you want, McCree?"

"Really, Ashe? No first names?" He looked genuinely hurt. Ashe had to pretend like she didn't care. "Well, if you insist… I need your help."

 _That_ surprised her. Jesse McCree did not ask for help. You asked him for help, but he would never make the same request. He was a liberty-loving free-riding hero of the highway; he craved independence and worshipped free will. He had once told her, on a cool midsummer's night, across a motel pillow, that he had sworn upon his father's grave to be beholden to no man. For him to swallow that down and ask for help, from _her_ of all people… that was downright unthinkable.

"Well…" he continued, tilting his head to the left a little. " _We_ need your help. I brought some friends, Ashe."

And out of the smoke walked a man and a woman Ashe had never seen before. One had a pair of mechanical arms, a glowing orange visor over his eyes and a mean attitude. The other, the woman, was clad in a big suit of armour that clanked with every step.

"Help with what, exactly?" She should have turned him down outright, but curiosity and that damned look on his face had her ask the question.

"My friends and I…" Jesse rubbed the back of his head, which Ashe knew meant he was trying to think of the best way to answer her. "We're on a mission, Ashe. Lookin' for payback. Probably gonna save the world somewhere along the way."

"And you want me to help you out?" Ashe's smile grew, and she noted the man with the mechanical arms and visor stiffen up. "How… charming. You know, Jesse, I should've figured it was you who sent that tip. But the way I see it…"

She cocked her rifle, the lever clicking and then clacking, and Bob stepped up beside her. Jesse's friends all readied up as well, as did the Deadlock gangers surrounding them. The girl in the armour had some sort of big metal club. The man with the arms cocked a very big rifle of some kind.

"Deadlock don't owe you a thing." she aimed her rifle,smile turning to a scowl, and the expression on Jesse's face nearly broke her heart. "And all I owe you is a bullet in the head."

Then the world erupted in white, a splitting pain filling her head as Bob decked her to the floor with one giant mechanical fist. She rolled over, eyes wide, and saw the omnic bruiser's own typically green orbs glowing a brilliant violet instead.

"Bob…?" she whispered, before his wrist-mounted guns popped out, one aiming at her and the other at her gang.

"I'm afraid Bob's mine now, senora…" a voice said, before a woman wearing black and purple materialized from thin air right before Ashe's eyes, a finger pressing against her nose. "Sweet dreams…"

Then Ashe took a boot to the face and saw nothing more.

 **iiiiiiiiii**

Jesse winced when Ashe took a punch from Bob; he'd been on the receiving end of the omnic's fists before himself. It was not fun, and a sucker punch to the back of the head like that… his own various injuries flared up in sympathetic pain. Ouch.

Then the Deadlock gang was shooting and Jack was shooting and Brigitte was shouting and Jesse had to focus _now_. A gunshot came very close to taking his hat off his head and his head off his shoulders, and Jesse whirled towards where the shot had come from, where a hooded omnic crouched atop a fallen train car. He cleared leather but before he could open fire Bob blew the omnic and most of its train car away in a hail of gunfire. So Jesse dropped his aim about a foot and put three shots in a box marked with a caution sign, blowing that entire section of gorge into kingdom come.

He rolled for cover. Jack was laying down short bursts of fire, the occasional helix rocket blasting away at boxes and twisted metal the gangers were using to hide, while Brigitte gave him shield cover and called shots. The lady in purple (why didn't he know her damned name?) was firing away with submachine gun small enough for her to wield with one hand, while her other danced and twisted, fingers tapping at some invisible keyboard. Bob, still under her control, was firing away at his fellow Deadlock members.

Jesse ducked as a bullet whizzed past his head, before turning and firing two shots with his peacekeeper. Neither hit but both encouraged the targets to keep their heads down and guns lowered, which was a damned improvement over taking even more fire. A woman wielding a shotgun like a baseball bat rushed Jack, who decided to oblige her apparent desire for severe injury by ducking her swing and smashing the butt of his rifle into her guts, before levelling her with a savage headbutt.

Brigitte swung that mace of hers overhand and the head, attached by chain to the handle, flew some fifteen feet through the air to smash into a ganger's chest, throwing him off his perch atop a train car and down to the ground. Jesse fired two more shots at an omnic ganger holding a sniper rifle, blowing his right arm clean off. The omnic just looked at the stump before turning to Jesse and charging. Jesse obliged him with a third shot to the chest, before ducking another heavily modified omnic furious slash with a long, arm mounted blade, putting his last shot in the thing's chest.

Jesse took a moment to reload, calling it to Jack as he ducked down again. Jack, halfway through slamming his fist into another ganger's face, didn't say anything. Jesse knew that meant he had been heard, and Brigitte rushed to his side to give him cover with her shield.

"Are we winning?" she asked him, giving another charging omnic a smack around the chops for his trouble.

"That's subjective," Jesse replied, sliding the last bullet home before sliding the cylinder back home, giving it a spin for luck. "We aren't losing, that's for sure. On your right."

She turned and lunged with her shield, giving him room to turn himself and let the adrenaline pumping through his veins really take over for a moment. The world seemed to slow down, his eyes narrowing, and he noted that the sun had reached its zenith. His hyperfocus revealed to him six opponents, half sheltered by the smoke. He took a breath and grinned.

"It's high noon…" he muttered, before firing all six shot in rapid succession, watching as six hapless Deadlock gangers hit the dirt, crippled but not dead.

Jack gave him a sideways glance, throwing aside a ganger he had choked into submission and then unconsciousness. Right, robot parts. He had probably heard that. The old soldier just shook his head, before firing a burst of rounds past him to knock out the arm-blade omnic from before, who had apparently recovered from the bullet to the chest.

Jesse tipped his hat in thanks, and Jack shook his head again.

"I figure that's about enough!" Jesse shouted, looking over the train wreckage and, for a moment, admiring their handiwork. "Any of you left standing can stop cowerin' and slink on out now!"

A few gangers emerged from the smoke, hands up, but apparently Jesse, Jack, Brigitte and a hacked Bob had handled most of the crew themselves. Handy. Brigitte rejoined him, her shield stowed on her vambrace again and flail on her shoulder. The mystery woman did some more shenanigans with her left hand and Bob slumped, apparently deactivated.

Bob.

Ashe.

Shit.

Jesse rushed the truck, suddenly remembering exactly how all this had started. He was an idiot, he had gotten caught up in the rush of the gunfight again, like he used to with Blackwatch, he had forgotten why they were here. He found Ashe on her back on the truck, breathing slow, face bruised something fierce. Shit. Head injuries. Shit shit shit… Jesse didn't know what to do. He wasn't a medic. Angela, Moira, they had handled that all back in the day. He knew how to clean and sterilize a cut or bullet hole, how to sew himself back together after a scrap, but his usual solution for a punch to the head was whisky and a nap.

He grabbed her, arms underneath her, picking her up a little.

"Ashe?" he spoke quietly, and to his surprise the white-haired crime boss stirred a little in his arms, eyes flickering open, that same honey gold with the tinge of red. "Ashe, can you hear me?"

"J-Jess… Jesse…?" she groaned, closing her eyes again hard when the sun hit them. "Wh-what… where…?"

"Jack!" Jesse turned, looking over his shoulder at the old man. "I need some of that nanite juice of yours!"

Jack was moving too slowly and Jesse wanted to shout at him, but Ashe had winced at his volume the first time, so he didn't. He didn't want this; they were supposed to talk. Maybe knock out a couple of her boys, have a fistfight… he didn't think it was going to turn into THIS.

"What's her status?" Jack asked him, grabbing from his hip one of those medical beacons he had likely 'procured' from some Overwatch storage facility.

"I don't fuckin' know, Jack!" Jesse hated how close his voice came to cracking there. "It's Ashe, Jack, she's tough, but… fuck, a hit to the head like that? Even you…"

Jack just nodded, slamming the beacon to the ground, and a golden glow filled the air around them. Jesse could feel his injuries fading away, he could see the bruise on Ashe's face slipping away, but these beacons weren't neurosurgery. They were meant to fix minor injuries, maybe patch up a bullet wound or some shrapnel damage. Not potential brain damage.

"Ashe?" Jesse looked down at her face, and she stirred a little.

"Hurts…" she groaned. "Head… hurts… Jess. You… where…? You… left…"

Jesse swallowed.

"I know, Ashe, I know." he took his hand from her back to touch her face, the flesh hand, the one she knew. "But I'm back."

"Took…" her eyes fluttered again, and gold met brown as they met his, a weak grin on her face. "Took you… long… enough… Cowboy…"

Jesse picked her up, and from how she nuzzled herself closer to him it was obvious she was at least a little out of it. Ashe _hated_ being pick up, hated feeling small. She had taken to wearing heeled boots just to be as tall as him, and he hadn't complained. Made casual pecks on the cheek easier, for certain. She still wore them, and part of him wondered if that was out of habit at this point or if maybe she had been keeping him in mind.

He swallowed again, shaking his head resolutely. Not the time for that, not now. He had to focus, keep himself in check. There was a mission to be done. But… this was Ashe. Jack was staring at him as they walked away, towards where Brigitte and the mystery woman were watching the remain Deadlock gangers.

"Holy shit…" one of them said, eyes wide as he stared at Jesse. "Jesse fuckin' McCree… in the flesh."

Jesse grinned, a fake grin, but it _was_ his trademark and he needed to keep up appearances for the rest of the team. Ashe shifted in his arms a little again, and he adjusted her to be closer to his chest. Christ, he was weak. Ashe had never been all that heavy, but Jesse was still damaged from a month ago and even now it was affecting his strength.

"In the flesh." he agreed. "Now, you boys and girls know who I am. And as my friends and I have proven, we could take you all down any time we damn well feel like. So when I ask you to gather up your boys, run off back to your headquarters and wait for us to mosey on in and give you some orders, what're you gonna be doin'?"

"Gathering our guys, headin' back to base and waitin' for orders?" the guy hazarded, looking genuinely confused. "Right?"

"As rain." Jesse said. "Ashe comes with us. But you boys try anything, and it ain't her head on the line. It's yours."

The guy swallowed, before nodding rapidly. Jesse watched as he and the other handful of gangers left standing grabbed their boys, before turning to Jack again.

"There's a motel a little further down the tracks." he said. "We can report the train wreck there, and find a doctor."

Jack agreed with a nod, apparently too tired to offer anything more verbal.

 **IIIII/Author's Note/IIIII**

 **Hey howdy rootin' tootin' pointin' and shootin' sure is fun to write. Nothin' like a good ol' cowboy shootout to get the blood pumpin' and Word Up by the BossHoss stuck in your head for a day because you listened to it the whole time. (Hint hint.)**

 **Anyhow, just wanted to give the fair warning that this story will probably take a while, and I'm probably not going to be able to update almost daily like this, so don't get too excited about update speed. I start work again soon, I just have a touch of time off.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed, and sayonara 'till the next one!**


	3. 3: Old Ties

Men With No Names

"Brother."

Hanzo Shimada had yet to grow used to being addressed with that word again. It had been over four months since Genji, his little brother, had found him, revealing himself to be alive and in part redeeming Hanzo of what had had been his greatest dishonor. Then… then he had disappeared again, only to return just last month, wounded and in dire need of aid. What else could the elder Shimada do but help?

The two of them had been hounded every step of the way by black armoured soldiers of the Talon Corporation, which left Hanzo curious, but Genji had kept his silence and Hanzo had not pressed him. He knew what it was to make secrets of the past, and it was not his place to judge or to pry. So the elder and younger Shimada fought side by side all across Japan, southern China and Myanmar, all the way into Nepal.

There Genji had led his brother into the depths of the mountains, high up, and into a grand place he called Shambali. A monastery, a place for both omnics and humans to find peace, harmony, and, in some cases, enlightenment. Genji had seemed much more at peace here than anywhere else they had been, relaxing almost immediately once they had crossed through its gates. And then Hanzo met Tekharta Zenyatta, the monk who Genji claimed had saved his soul (and not his body, an answer which his brother called a story for another time).

Zenyatta was a strange individual. Hanzo had no real feelings for Omnics, no hate nor love. His father had hired Omnics just as he had hired humans, and Hanzo had grown up surrounded by men of flesh and metal. But Zenyatta… there was something about the monk that made Hanzo hesitate, think harder. His presence made one's heart rate slow, their breath grow more even, their body relax. The machine emanated from his metal form a certain sense of peace, of tranquility… something Hanzo and Genji both had long been without.

"Brother?" Genji's voice again. Hanzo snapped from his reverie, eyes opening and gaze turning leftward toward where his brother stood in the doorway of the small shrine room where he was kneeling in meditation.

"Genji." Hanzo nodded, to show he was listening. "What is it?"

"My apologies for disturbing your meditation," his brother said, bowing his head. "But there is a matter that master Zenyatta believes demands our attentions."

Hanzo rose to his feet, grabbing his bow where it lay before him and shrugging it over his shoulder. He carried it everywhere; its presence brought him peace. According to Zenyatta, this was actually quite healthy, and a sign that he truly was a warrior; he saw his weapon not as a tool to be used, but a part of him, an extension of his will. Hanzo saw it as insurance against potential danger, but the monk had a way with words that made many things sound far more important than they truly were.

"What is this matter, brother?" Hanzo asked, embracing the word wholeheartedly; it had been a long road, but at last he and Genji could respect each other for the men they were.

"An affair of Talon." Genji replied. "And more importantly… of the Shimada."

"I left our clan behind after what I did to you, Genji," Hanzo said. "I know nothing of the affairs of the Shimada, no more than I know of the affairs of the birds and fish."

"But you and I still know the Shimada ways," Genji replied. "And master Zenyatta believes our knowledge could be of great use."

"And our skill at arms." Hanzo noted, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Genji's own nod and chuckled agreement made that smile take full form for a moment, and Hanzo felt at peace.

This was what he had been missing. For too long had he sought redemption through a ceaseless quest for… something. Death perhaps; though whether it was his own death or the deaths of his enemies he could not say. All he knew was that he had needed this, this forgiveness, both from his brother and himself. Genji had forgive him, and Hanzo had forgiven himself as a result, and now the Shimada brothers were united as one once more.

It was like all his greatest dreams had been answered.

The monastery was a beautiful backdrop in which to observe these things; Hanzo had seen many grand structures in his time, the vast skyscrapers of Shanghai and Numbani, the grand and ancient structures of Egypt and Germany, the technological wonders of Oasis… but Shambali Monastery felt greater than all these, for it had a tranquility to it that everywhere else lacked. For some it would no doubt seem quaint or boring, but Hanzo almost revered the cool air, the quiet and polite inhabitants, the scent of incense and snow.

The two brothers walked together in peace, Hanzo slightly behind Genji. Such was his preferred place; should danger arise the two brothers could leap into action together, Genji rushing headfirst towards the threat while Hanzo covered him with his bow. Genji had taught him how to control the dragon within him even more, and he had evolved beyond simply channelling their wrath through a single arrow; he could now use their power to fuel a furious storm of arrows made of the ancestral energy, not even needing to nock or draw, only fire.

This had made him even deadlier, and while he had yet to evolve the technique to channel his sonar or scatter arrows, even basic broadheads were almost always lethal except against the most exceptionally resilient of targets if he landed all five strikes. Even now he could feel the heat within him, the dragon flowing through his veins as it did through Genji's own. It was… exhilarating.

They entered the inner sanctum, a place named so more for its location than any real importance. Shambali eschewed the decorative, grandiose nature of other spiritual places, preferring humble and simple architecture instead. Exceptions could be found, of course, in the floating statues and the great stone arches, but these were not made to reflect wealth or glory; only the aesthetic of beauty.

In the centre of that vast chamber Zenyatta floated, six spiritual arms of golden light around him, each held in what was most commonly recognized as the 'OK' sign. It was… strange, to see, but Hanzo had grown used to the monk's peculiar habits. He was wise and strong, and had given Genji the same peace Genji now gave Hanzo, and for that Hanzo would forever be grateful toward the Omnic.

"Greetings." he said, the arms of light fading and leaving behind two metallic ones, one of which waved at them in a little circular motion. "Hanzo, Genji, thank you for coming here."

"I will always answer your call, master." Genji said, bowing his head.

"And where my brother goes, so too shall I." Hanzo replied, bowing as well. "For too long have I been without him."

Zenyatta had no mouth with which to smile, but Hanzo had learned how to recognize the Omnic's head positions and the emotions into which they translated. A tilt forward when pleased, to the left when confused, to the right when determined… there were many. For now, the Omnic was smiling, or at least his equivalent.

"It pleases me greatly to see you at peace, Hanzo Shimada." Zenyatta said, before gesturing with his hand. "But I am afraid the news I bear will likely trouble you."

Hanzo said nothing, simply nodding.

"It concerns the clan of your childhood, the Shimada," Zenyatta continued. "Apparently, they have sworn to assist the Talon Corporation. An Omnic who came recently to our humble monastery informed us of this, and provided ample evidence to prove his claims."

"The Shimada… _with_ Talon?" Hanzo's eyes widened, and his fists tightened around nothing. "Impossible. There is too much pride in the clan of my father for them to bend the knee to any foreign power, even one as strong as Talon."

"And yet, they have," Zenyatta said. "This, along with the destruction of Overwatch, concerns the Shambali greatly. Though I haven't the sam ties with this place that I used to, the death of Mondatta did force my hand in returning here. A death orchestrated by Talon."

"What would you have us do, Master?" Genji asked, his hand slowly reaching over his back toward his Dragonblade.

"Do not hasten to the blade so soon, Genji," Zenyatta said, raising a hand, and Genji's hand stilled itself. "There are actions to be taken, but violence needn't be our first resort."

"Talon will not bend to words alone," Hanzo said, looking at the Omnic. "There are many among them who have convictions of their own, as strong as the Shambali's. Violence may be the only thing they listen to."

Zenyatta seemed saddened by that, his posture drooping the slightest and his hovering form dropping an inch or two towards the floor. Hanzo stilled his hands, taking them away from his bow, and Genji put a hand on his shoulder which Hanzo touched his own hand to. They stood in solidarity, together, and Zenyatta looked at them.

"It is a great shame that two men as brilliant as you must be wasted in war." Zenyatta said, voice softer. "But… even violence has its place in harmony. Chaos and order in balance requires conflict, an ebb and flow. One must wax and other wane, back and forth, to and fro… I wish I did not need to ask this of you."

"You can ask of us anything, master." Genji said, looking to Hanzo, who nodded in affirmation. "We owe you everything."

"You saved my brother," Hanzo said. "And through him, you saved me."

"No…" Zenyatta shook his head. "You two saved yourselves. I merely showed you the paths; you walked them of your own accords. And now… now it would seem they have led here, so soon after becoming one."

Hanzo watched as the Omnic monk rose in the air again, back to his usual height, and nodded once.

"Regardless of their goals, Talon is a force for chaos." Zenyatta said. "Overwatch was a force for order, but now they are gone. Genji, Hanzo… I would ask you two to do what Overwatch could not. To fight Talon. To maintain order."

"Of course, master."

Genji drew his Dragonblade, the green light of his dragon illuminating the room, and Hanzo took his bow from his shoulder. Both knelt and laid these weapons down before them, heads bowed. Hanzo could feel the weight of history in this moment; this was a great change. A shift in the paradigm, a moment where the world's path turned in a new direction.

"Then go." Zenyatta said. "And bring balance back to the world."

Hanzo and Genji rose, replacing their weapons upon their backs. As one, they bowed to their master, who bowed back, and then went from the room. And as they walked away, Hanzo smiled.

"Let fly the dragons once more," he said, looking at his brother to finish the statement, the oath of their childhood.

"And watch as the world shakes." Genji said, and the two shared a smile. "You know where we must go."

"Indeed." Hanzo replied, the smile slipping away from his face, replaced by a look of resolute acceptance. He did not want to say the next words, but he knew he must or they would eat at his insides.

"It is time for us to go home."

 **iiiiiiiiii**

Jesse McCree was having uncomfortable flashbacks to another time of his life, one he'd thought he'd been able to finally leave behind. It was a memory of Blackwatch, of that time of his life where he made his greatest mistakes and enemies. That time of his life when he'd both been in his prime and at the bottom of the world, depending on what metric he was measuring by. And yet, despite all that… he could never forget it. He remembered almost every day, every time he drew his peacekeeper and cocked the hammer… it was another reminder of the men and women he'd served beside, of the mistakes he'd made, and of the lives he'd ruined.

Genji was injured. This was nothing unusual; the mysterious cyborg rarely escaped injury on the field, no matter what sort of mission they were running. He spent most battles up close and personal with the enemy, taking them to task with sword and throwing star. Not exactly the safest weapons to bring to a gunfight, and yet he'd more than proven his worth to Blackwatch over a dozen missions.

But he was almost always getting himself hurt, and Angela was almost always patching him up. And with Reyes being almost afraid of personal contact with his teammates and Moira always brewing up some new concoction in that spooky lab of hers, it fell to Jesse to sit by the injured man's bedside and just be there.

He'd been at that bedside for a good two hours one day, drinking a paper cup of lukewarm coffee and scrolling through a report on a tablet, some info on a Talon operation in Italy somewhere, when he heard the cyborg stirring. He dropped the tablet on the desk and leaned in, watching as Genji's various lights blinked and beeped, syncing with his vital signs. Then he cocked an eyebrow as the ninja sat straight up, one hand reaching to a sheathed sword that wasn't there and the other in front of his face, warding off some incoming strike.

"Hanzo!" the man had cried, and for a moment McCree realized just how close in age he and Genji were, the cyborg younger than him by only a couple of years. He sounded so much younger then though, like a scared kid, and the way his eyes flicked across the infirmary ward he seemed weary of some attack.

Jesse had assured him that he was fine, that they were in Overwatch HQ, and that he had been injured. Genji had never spoken another word of this 'Hanzo' fellow, but Jesse had never really tried to dig; he knew plenty about having people in your past you wanted to keep close to the chest.

Well, Ashe had just done the same thing, saying his name with an almost desperate air, and this time it was a mug of coffee he was putting aside. Ashe was in his bed; well, it was a bed meant for him, but in actuality it belonged to the motel they were ducked away in. He and Jack had snuck her in the back window, ever so carefully slotting her into the bed when they realized that a doctor's office or clinic was out of the question; this was the heart of Deadlock territory and there wasn't a lawman for a hundred miles any way you spat that would ignore the chance to arrest the gang's infamous leader.

So he had sat at her bedside and waited, Jack slipping out to 'go take care of some business with the girls'. He was grateful Jack had recognized that he would rather be alone with Ashe at the moment, rather than sitting in awkwardly. Maybe Jack finally trusted him, for real this time. Or maybe he was delusional.

He would take either one.

Ashe looked at him, eyes wide.

"Jesse…?" she asked. "What the…. Where… what's goin' on?"

"I needed your help, Ashe," Jesse replied, nodding. "And you were going to shoot me. Which I reckon I deserve, mind you, but I've made promises to people who need me very much alive, so I can't really get around to dyin' for a while if it's all the same to you."

She looked stunned and horrified, two reactions he hadn't quite expected. Then she looked around, at the motel room, and seemed to calm down. Just a little; her breathing steadied. That was always what she got under control first; breath and hands. You couldn't shoot right with a lever-action if you had shaky hands or were gasping for air. He'd been told that one a fair few times. He'd also been told quite a few other things, that he didn't need to remember at the moment.

"I…" she looked back at him. "I tried to shoot you?"

"Bob stopped you," he replied, gesturing to the back of his own head. "Hence the… you know. Bump."

"Bob…" she looked around again. "Where is that bucket of bolts? And Vicente? And Samuel? Where's everybody else, Jesse?"

She chuckled, while Jesse froze. Vicente. Samuel. The other founding members of Deadlock. But… Samuel was dead. Vicente was long gone. They… what was she thinking about? How hard had she been hit? What the hell was going on?

"You make the usual excuses?" she continued. "Dunno what you were talkin' about a second ago, with the trying to shoot you thing. Are you feelin' okay?"

Jesse stared at her.

"Ashe…" he looked at her. "Ashe, what year is it?"

"Fucked if I know…" she replied. "Um… what year _is_ it?"

Jesse raised an eyebrow. He told her. She froze this time, then looked at her own hands, then back to Jesse, then all around the room.

"Jesse…" There was a creeping note of annoyance in there. "What kinda trick are you tryin' to pull here? Is this because of the painting-your-bike-pink thing? Because that was all Samuel; I was just dragged along for the ride there."

Jesse swallowed.

"Ashe…" he looked at the wall for a moment, then let his eyes fall back to her. "Samuel is dead. Vicente is gone… Ashe, I _left you_. We got caught, remember? Overwatch sting operation? I sold out so they'd let you loose?"

"What?" Now she looked well and truly confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jesse was panicking. She couldn't remember. She didn't remember Overwatch, or Samuel, or Jesse leaving. She didn't remember the years he had been gone… she thought it was still the good old days, when it was just the four of them, riding the highways and robbing liquor stores and banks before drinking away their ill gotten gains around campfires in the early hours of the morning, laughing and joking.

Fuck, wasn't _that_ a wave of nostalgia if he'd ever felt one. He offered her a hand, his metal one, and she stared at it in shock.

"What in the…" she took it, touched it, turned it over in her hands. "Jesse… what… what happened?"

He pulled the hand away and closed his fist, staring at it.

"You happened, Ashe." he replied. "Faulty dynamite charge. Blew it clean off at the shoulder. That's what got us caught; I gave myself to Overwatch so you wouldn't get locked up for the rest of your life. Got you out on probation. Then… you told me to come back, and I never did. Met a girl in Overwatch, forgot about everything for a while. Then it all came crumbling down and I went underground. When I came to find you… you told me to go to hell. I almost did, truth be told. But I kept going."

Ashe was staring at him, tears in her eyes. Fuck. Ashe didn't cry. Ashe never cried. Ashe wasn't meant to cry, she was meant to grin and laugh and put bullets through beer bottles at two hundred paces while sloshed out of her head. She was meant to smack Bob in the back and throw McCree a spare round in a gunfight and share a drink with him at the fireside. Ashe wasn't supposed to cry.

"Jesse…" she was speaking slow, really slow. "It's… it's true, isn't it? You aren't making all this up."

"No." he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ashe, but a lot's happened."

"Why can't I remember?" she asked.

"Because one of my friends is apparently fucking a master hacker who can make Bob punch you in the back of the head." he replied candidly. "And now you've forgotten some fifteen years of life. I promise, Ashe, it's the truth."

Ashe just stared at him, and smiled.

"You haven't changed all that much." she said, and McCree went wide eyed. "You're still shit at makin' bad news sound good. You still have that stupid fuckin' beard. The peacekeeper's still on your hip, and you're wearing that bitch-ass-motherfucker belt buckle Samuel bought you. You haven't changed all that much, Jesse… you still talk the same. Probably still shoot the same."

"I got a few pointers…" he admitted. "Know how to fan the hammer proper-like now. And the arm helps with that. But… Ashe, don't this bother you? I… I was a real piece o' crap, I'll admit it straight and even. I left you behind and then came back after an age and a bit and expected you to just-"

"Jesse…" she smiled. "I don't give a fuck."

Then she grabbed him by the top of his head, fingers knotted in his hair, and kissed him full on the mouth. And for exactly three seconds, he had no idea how to react. He screamed 'what do I do?' to his subconscious, and his subconscious came to a decision a moment later.

' _Her, dumbass.'_

They kissed for almost two minutes; he was counting for the sake of counting and trying to not lose himself entirely. This was bad, this was wrong, this was exploitation; she was injured and had amnesia or something and now he was making out with her and why the hell was he blushing like a virgin again godammit what was he thinking…

And then she pulled away, and smiled at him.

"Jesse," she began, shushing him when he went to speak. "Whatever the fuck you did, whatever stupid shit you came up with… I don't care. I don't care because as far as I'm fuckin' concerned, it didn't happen anymore. So burn it all down, forget about it. You just got a fresh start, cowboy."

She sighed, frustrated, when he tried to interject.

"So shut the hell up about bein' a bad person, because news flash, Jesse McCree; you are. I helped you rob _banks_ , Jesse. We shot people. Stole. Killed. Didn't rape because I woulda whooped your ass six ways from Sunday but we did every bad thing we could think of besides."

She slapped him across the face. It hurt, probably because he didn't see it coming.

"There." she continued. "That's for whatever dumb shit you did. Happy now? Now tell me what the hell it is you need help with, who your friends are, and what the fuck happened to the rest of the crew. And then I am going to-"

"I get it, Ashe!" he said, smiling despite himself. "I get it. I don't know… but… I'll try, alright? But I can't just run away from the past. There's some things I _need_ to get done."

Ashe grinned.

"Will there be gunfights?" He nodded, and her smile grew. "Explosions? Chases? Drinking? Brawling? Sex?"

He nodded for all of them, though sex just had him pause and look at her, and she laughed.

"What?" she gave him a jab in the ribs. "Girl's gotta keep her man motivated somehow."

He frowned, and she laughed even harder, before offering him a hand. It was rougher than she probably remembered, but he took it, and they shook.

"Partners," she said, and the word had never sounded sweeter. "Until the end. Now… who is it we're shooting, blowing up, running away from, drinking to forget, fistfighting with and just generally messing up?"

"Nothing' big…" Jesse replied, looking down at his hand for a second, before looking back to her with a grin. "Just a global mega-corporation trying to conquer the world through a buncha conspiracies and super-shady murders, robberies and assassinations protected by one of the world's largest standing armies and recruiting a team of superhuman killers."

Ashe's wild grin made his heart soar.

"Business as usual, then." she said. "Now… you have a plan?"

"That's where the boss comes in." Jesse replied. "You wait a minute, and I'll go grab him."

He went to stand, only to have the front of his shirt grabbed and his entire weight pulled forward, onto the bed. Ashe's wild grin was now mere inches from his face.

"Not so fast, cowboy…" she said. "No need to bring in anybody else just yet. Door locked?"

He nodded.

"Good." she replied, and then magic happened.

 **IIIII/Author's Note/IIIII**

 **I'm fully expecting to be called a sellout for this one, but honestly, I thought this would be a more interesting angle than the old-fashioned 'old lovers who were distanced have to work together again and fall in love despite themselves' trope, and I gave myself as logical a reason as I could to engineer it. Furthermore, there's a narrative element to this that I really want to explore but won't outright spoil because it's more interesting if I let you guys figure it out yourselves. I don't expect everybody to love it but I'm also hoping there are a few people who can appreciate the twist.**

 **That aside, how about them Shimada brothers, eh? Hanzo and Genji being friends and actual brothers who work together makes me feel happy. They'll still have some rough edges but hey, show me a pair of siblings that doesn't argue and I'll show you my snowball snatched from the depths of Hell because lo and behold; neither of those things exist.**

 **Seriously, the snowball isn't real. Don't ask about it.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed, and sayonara 'till the next one!**


	4. 4: Big Talk

Men With No Names

"Andrew, are you awake? A lot's happened, sweetie, and I'm afraid some it's your fault."

Andrew Vicci had no idea where the hell he was. Worse than that, there was a woman talking to him, he had some sort of blindfold over his eyes, and he had no idea who the woman was, which meant one of two things. Either Victor had done something stupid at the bar and gotten them both in shit by picking up a crazy psycho bitch _again_ or he'd done it all by himself. Given that he had barely had time to drink his pint before Victor had dragged him off to talk to girls again…

It was probably Victor's fault. But the lady was saying it was his fault, which was confusing because Andrew was far too much of a coward to get into trouble like this. He had never been kidnapped, never been shot or stabbed or even chased by the cops. He wasn't exactly a troublemaker… no, that was Victor. Victor did all of those things. But Victor was Andrew's friend, so it usually fell to Andrew to settle these issues for the moron. That was fine; what else were friends for?

There was a hand on his chest. Why was there a hand on his chest? Did it belong to the woman? He hoped not. Andrew didn't like being touched by women. It reminded him too much of his mother and he'd spent a long time trying to forget her. Victor had helped. What a good friend…

"Andrew, are you listening to me?" the woman asked. She sounded rather polite, like she was concerned. Weird.

Andrew nodded. There was something in his mouth, something that felt like fabric. A rag, probably, to make sure he couldn't speak. Andrew was happy it wasn't anything weird or kinky or anything like that. It helped that he was still wearing his clothes. Although his back felt a little sticky and was throbbing… huh.

"Andrew, I'm afraid we need your help again." the woman continued, that hand on his chest slowly trailing up to his chin. "Do you remember us, Andrew? Your old friends, you and Victor were very helpful…"

Andrew thought back. Old friends… nope. Victor was better at making friends than Andrew was. Andrew shook his head, feeling a little sad. He liked remembering old friends, but Victor was usually the one making friends. Andrew was just along for the ride, most of the time.

"Oh, Andrew…" Two warm, soft hands cupped his face, long nails scraping gently against his skin. "Oh, you have forgotten, haven't you? Come now, you must remember us, we helped you and Victor after… after the incident in New York. Remember?"

Andrew shook his head. He felt bad; this woman clearly wanted him to remember, but he had nothing.

"You don't even remember me, Andrew?" she asked, sounding quite upset indeed. "Oh, it's been so long, Andrew. You and Victor were such wonderful help, you were so good with all those fancy machines and Victor… well, don't tell him, but I always preferred you over him. He was so rough around the edges…"

A kiss on the cheek, and then she was whispering in his ear, tickling the sensitive nerves there with warm breath. He shuddered.

"It's time to come back, Andrew…" she said. "Talon needs you again."

Andrew shuddered, harder that time, memories coming back to him in a tidal wave. He realized Victor was near, closer than he thought, and then the woman who he knew now was named Bianca gave him a kiss on the cheek and stepped back. Andrew closed his eyes.

"Andrew?" she asked.

He smiled. No, he beamed, a savage little smile, eyes gleaming with madness under the blindfold.

"Andrew's a little busy right now." said Victor, voice perpetually on the verge of savage laughter, a mad cackle constantly threatening to bust out and make a mess of everything. "But you can always rely on me, Bianca. Even if I'm a little rough around the edges. Isn't that right?"

 **iiiiiiiiii**

"You're sure she can't remember anything?" Jack sounded annoyed, but Jesse was well used to the man's shortened temper as of late and just nodded.

Jack looked over at Ashe, who was leaning against the wall right next to the door, arms crossed. They were still in the motel, figuring out where to go with the current situation and having no actual ideas. Turns out a case of amnesia was a bigger problem than Ashe seemed to want to let it be, which was deeply unfortunate for her.

"I don't know what you think I'm trying to pull; I don't even know what you think I have to gain from pullin' the wool over your eyes," Ashe said, staring Jack down with that fire in her eyes that Jesse didn't even know he had missed before now. "But I can't remember anything. Not this whole Overwatch mess, not getting arrested; apparently I turned myself into a grade-a bitch over the last few years but I couldn't tell you shit about them. All I know is that you're all getting yourselves into a panic for nothing."

Jesse looked at Jack, who just rolled his eyes and took a glance out the window when he saw something in his peripheral vision. Nothing in the parking lot but his bike, Jack's truck, and a couple of hovercars. Nothing to take note of, nothing unusual… besides the man striding down the centre of the lot with something slung over his shoulder, something suspiciously rifle shaped.

"Jack," Jesse began, as the man pointed a finger towards the room they were in, thumb raised like the hammer of a gun. "Jack, somebody outside. Get-"

The window exploded in a hail of bullets, and Jesse dove away. Ashe dropped to the ground as well, hands reaching for weapons she didn't have. Jack ducked behind the bed, reaching underneath and pulling out that enormous rifle of his. The whole room had erupted into a cacophonous mess of flying bullets, broken glass, shredded furniture, and Ashe swearing up a storm. She looked at Jesse, who met her eyes and nodded once before he slid her a flashbang.

"Pop and drop!" he shouted over the gunfire, and she smiled the devilish smile he loved. "On three!"

He didn't need to count vocally; she knew to start the moment he winked. He did so, and three seconds of gunfire and chaos ticked down before he slammed the door open with a mechanical elbow and lunged outside. Ashe threw the flashbang out past him, and it flew through the door, off the walkway outside, and into the parking lot, detonating in the mystery man's face.

Jesse fired twice. The first bullet went wide, a consequence of his unfortunate positioning, and the second slammed into the man's forearm, now shielding his eyes. The man didn't make a sound but drew his own pistol, a smaller automatic handgun, and fired off a series of pulse rounds towards the balcony. The gunfire riddling the room ceased and Jack jumped out of the window, his momentum carrying him over the walkway railing and down onto the asphalt below. Jesse watched as his visor lit up and suddenly his rifle flicked twenty degrees right, blasting the gun out of the hands of a man Jesse hadn't even noticed.

Well, the Tactical Visor had certainly received a few upgrades since Jesse had last seen it in action. He levelled his peacekeeper and fired again at the man in the parking lot, who was making a run for it, directly towards Jesse. Jesse wasn't concerned; he had the high ground.

Then the man leapt ten feet in the air and Jesse realized his legs were actually robotic and suddenly things seemed much less ideal. He dodged a flying kick the saw the man roll across the ground, rising to his feet and grabbing his rifle, but Ashe belted him in the mouth from the side when she popped out from behind the door and he was knocked aside, giving her room to backstep. Jesse put a bullet in each of the man's knees, only for them to bounce off and the man, a redhead with a considerable number of freckles and scars littering his face, gave him a very large grin.

"Ain't that easy, McCree!" The would-be assassin tried to kick Ashe in the face, but she was smart enough to backstep and Jesse stopped playing around. A bullet in that rifle,and another in the man's left shoulder so both his arms were disabled.

"I think it very much is, pal." Jesse replied, grinning as he reloaded his peacekeeper. "Call your pals off and my friend down there won't put 'em all down."

The man just smiled, before Jesse remembered there was another gunman apparently in the perfect place to open fire upon him and make him resemble the mostly demolished window. The man rolled backwards and Jesse did the same as a hail of bullets began to demolish the wall to his immediate left.

He rolled backwards again, and then again, before the gunfire stopped following him. Ashe had run after him, avoiding the hail of gunfire just like him, but the redhead was standing opposite him on the walkway, grinning with both arms limp at his sides. His legs were bizarre; the thighs were mechanical for sure, thick and bulky, but at the knee they narrowed down into what looked like a simple curved metal bar for feet.

The guy was younger than Jesse expected, smiling like a whackjob and occasionally glancing to Ashe as though he were checking the woman out. That pissed McCree right off; he was an old-fashioned man, after all. He raised his peacekeeper and the man came running, long powerful strides clearing the gap between them faster than McCree could aim and fire. He kicked the gun out of McCree's hand, before switching feet and kicking McCree hard enough in the chin to slam his jaw shut and knock his hat off his head.

Given that the assassin's foot was effectively a metal bar, that quite obviously hurt a lot.

But McCree wasn't the sort to surrender so easily, and smacked aside the next kick with his mechanical hand, before following up with a right cross aimed at the man's jaw. The man ducked, and Ashe's kick, formerly aimed for his crotch, instead slammed into his face. The man bowled over backwards, rolling with it and rising to his feet again.

"Feisty," the man said, before Jesse lunged and punched him square in the nose.

A punch to the nose typically makes a man's eyes tear up, and as such Jesse was afforded a moment to punch the man again. And again. And a few more times, grabbing a fistful of the man's hair to drive his fist into that face over and over again until he stopped moving. He then hauled the man upwards and held it close, hoping that the presence of their leader would dissuade any other gunmen from opening fire.

He took a moment to glance down into the parking lot; Jack was cleaning house quite effectively, ducking and rolling between cars, firing at anybody stupid enough to risk an approach. Jesse wasn't sure how many assailants were present but he saw four fallen bodies on the ground, and at least two more behind a large truck parked on the road. That explained where they had come from, at least.

"Ashe," he said, looking at her. "We need to get out of here. Get the bike started; keys are already in your pocket."

She checked, and then looked at him when his words were confirmed by roving fingers. He grinned.

"Wanted to give you an out if things went sideways," he said. "Anyhow, get the bike started; I'll be down in a sec."

"What about your friends?" She looked down at Jack in the parking lot. Jesse smiled.

"I've got them covered," he said. "Now go!"

She ran, taking the steps on the stairs two at a time and jumping the last five feet, scurrying along low to the ground. She stayed behind cars, and Jesse dropped the man's unconscious form before grabbing his peacekeeper. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second. He wasn't entirely certain he had enough in him to make another round of shots like he had back at the site of the train wreck. Deadeye, as he had named the technique one whisky-soaked night, took a fair bit of energy and built up adrenaline.

But he needed to get the job done, and so he opened his eyes and let the world flow into him. Errant shapes and colours filled his vision; things where they weren't meant to be things. Disruption in the natural order of the world. A sniper with Overwatch, a Russian named Timur, had once described sniping and painting as having a whole lot in common. It all came down to details, shapes that were wrong and colours out of place.

Jesse took in those details and drew and fired all in one long motion and three men fell to the ground hard, taken down by his peacekeeper. A gunman in the truck, with some sort of mounted LMG, the two riflemen Jack had been trading fire with, and he put a bullet in the truck's engine block itself just to be sure nobody was going anywhere. He could hear sirens now; open gunfights in the streets of a small town like this were bound to attract police.

He jumped from the balcony and hit the ground with a wince when his leg buckled, but chose to walk it off. Brigitte and the girl in purple were both out and moving toward the truck, Jack beckoning them on. The former had her shield up again, scanning the road, while the latter was just full-bore sprinting behind Jack.

Ashe was already straddling the bike, and slid back to let McCree jump on the front. He kicked the stand away, revved the throttle and they were tearing away, a one-hundred-eighty degree spin turning them toward the road before they were off and away. The rest of the team followed in the truck, just as a pair of police cars arrived at the motel. One turned off into the motel but the other gave chase.

"Shit." Jesse muttered, looking in the mirror to see the cruiser following. He could outstrip it, easily, but Jack's truck was nowhere near fast enough.

"Jesse, give me the peacekeeper!" Ashe said, and without a moment's hesitation he slid the weapon free of its holster and handed it to her, keeping one hand on the throttle.

She cocked the weapon, twisting to aim it behind them, and fired a single shot. The bullet punched right into the car's engine block, its hoverjets sparking out and leaving it skidding along the ground, leaving behind a trail of sparks before it screeched to a stop. Two police officers, likely deputies of the local sheriff, leapt from the car drawing handguns, but it was far too late for that. They were home free.

"Deadlock base is just a few miles north of here!" Ashe called, and McCree nodded. "We can rally up there!"

 **iiiiiiiiii**

Their arrival at the old Deadlock hideout, which McCree wasn't surprised to find had expanded quite a bit, was hailed by the inhabitants as a shock. People ran inside, the big main door slamming shut with the heavy clang of metal on metal, and the five were left standing outside, McCree glancing at Ashe with his thumbs tucked into his belt. Ashe just rolled her eyes and walked up to the front door, slamming her fist into it twice.

"Open up!" she demanded, and a security camera turned to look at her. She gave it a fearsome scowl and it turned away, before the door slowly slid open again.

Jesse took a moment to glance around. Jack had his rifle in his hands, likely expecting trouble. The purple-clad woman was hiding away behind Brigitte, who herself looked quite wary of the situation ahead. Jesse almost admired her caution, if not the part of it that seemed to be outright fear. She wasn't in her armour, and from what Jesse could tell she was pretty damn attached to it. Probably felt vulnerable, going without.

Jesse felt the earth shake slightly, and heard a steady booming sound before seeing Bob fast approaching, stampeding from the depths of the concrete tunnel at full speed. The massive omnic butler-cum-bodyguard came to a halt mere feet away from Ashe, who gave him a grin and a wave with her right hand.

"How's it goin' Bob?" she asked, before Bob deployed both of his wrist guns and took aim squarely at the woman in purple and Jesse both.

Ashe reacted as Ashe was wont to react to such affairs and gave the omnic a slap on the chest to stop him, swearing at him furiously as she did so. Bob dropped his weapons, ending the deployment and letting them slide back into his arms, his almost unmoving face still managing to convey a sense of shame. Jesse heard the woman in purple make a quiet whipcrack sound with her mouth.

"Bob, Jesse's back with us," she said. "Okay? We're riding with him again."

Bob analyzed Jesse for a long moment, green eyes narrowing into slits, before he took several heavy steps to stand right in front of (and over) Jesse. A moment of tense silence, before a hand extended to Jesse. Jesse took it, shaking it, and Bob seemed pleased, nodding once.

"Good to be back, Bob." Jesse said, giving the omnic a slap on the upper arm. "Especially if it means being back in your good graces specifically."

Bob just let out a quiet mechanical hum at that, before eying up the rest of the crew, analyzing them. Eyes settled on the purple-clad woman, and narrowed, before moving on to Jack, who seemed to get an approving nod. Jack just nodded back, and there was a soft mechanical hum again, likely satisfaction. Brigitte got a nod as well.

"Bob, what's the situation?" Ashe asked, and Bob just pointed at the doors.

The crew took a look to see and realize that the Deadlock gangers had returned holding guns, and at their head was a woman with brown hair and a smug grin who was unnervingly familiar to Jesse. It took him a moment to place the brunette, before he recalled the name Delilah and a passing relation to Vicente.

"Ashe…" Delilah sounded amused. "Good to see you come crawling back."

"This how it's gonna be, Delilah?" Ashe replied, returning the smile. "I'm gone for a day and you try to snatch Deadlock out from under me? What would Vicente say?"

A moment of hesitation. Ashe seized it immediately.

"I've saved your sorry life before, Delilah," she continued. "You owe me a chat at least. Meeting room, now. Rest of the seconds come too. Got it?"

"Why in the hell would I give you time to chat?" Delilah asked, frowning now. "I don't owe you shit, Ashe!"

"You're gonna give me that chat, Delilah, because if you don't…" Ashe stepped closer, one hand wrapped around the grip of her recently returned coach gun and a disarming smile on her face. "I'll have Bob tear you into several very messy pieces and toss you off the gorge's cliffside so you can float right away. Sound good?"

Delilah swallowed.

Jesse narrowed his eyes.

Ashe chuckled.

Jack readied his rifle.

Bob let out a mechanical hum again, this one of a much deeper pitch.

Delilah took a step back.

"Fine." she said. "You have two minutes."

 **iiiiiiiiii**

"Way I see it, you boys are still on my payroll. And that means when I walk into a room and give an order, you don't stand up and tell me what I can go and do to myself. Any of you boys or girls care to take a guess at what you're supposed to do?"

Ashe twisted her heel ever so slightly, increasing the pressure on the throat beneath it. Jesse winced; however she had changed and then un-changed, she still had a hell of a mean streak when she took something personally. And as Delilah, the woman who had stepped in to take over the Deadlock gang in Ashe's absence, was learning, she took quite a few things personally. Ashe gave Delilah one of her million dollar murder-smiles and the woman tried to choke out a reply before Ashe once again increased the pressure on her throat.

"Not you, Delilah; this lesson's for your benefit, after all…" she said sweetly, before looking around at the seven-odd Deadlock lieutenants gathered by her command. "Anybody who hasn't already signed their last will care to take a stab? Answer's real easy…"

"Erm…" one of the lieutenants, a brawny man Jesse couldn't put a name to, rubbed the back of his head as he hazarded a guess. "We… we follow the order?"

"Yeah, what he said!" said a wiry woman, halfway cowering behind the larger man. "What Bronco said, Ashe, we do what you say! You betcha! Whaddya want done?"

"Fuck that." The protest came from the mouth of one Thomas Rudley, who Jesse

recognize as a particularly unintelligent former lacky of Samuel's who had apparently stayed on after the founder's unfortunate demise. He was pointing a revolver at Ashe, clutched in a gold-trimmed prosthetic hand that had probably cost a fortune. "Spent almost fifteen goddamn years listening to this bi-"

Thomas was quickly silenced by a metal fist to the head, courtesy not of Bob but Jack, who kicked the man's dazed form to roll him over. The rest of the lieutenants watched in stunned silence as Jack raised his rifle and shot Thomas' hand into a sparking ruin of wires and torn metal with a salvo of pulse rounds, before he turned his magma-orange gaze up to them, jaw set in an angry scowl.

"Anybody else?" he asked, and when Thomas went to sit up and slur something he received a rifle butt to the face that probably knocked a few teeth out. Jack continued his address as if nothing had happened. "If it were up to me, I'd put each one of you scum in the dirt where you belong, but luckily for you your old boss insists you're worth keeping around for a while longer. So if anybody wants out, step up and fight or shut up and get in rank and goddamn file."

Nobody spoke a word of protest, and Bronco actually snapped to attention, military style. Jack turned that scowl his way and he relaxed, eyes wide with fear. Ashe just chuckled.

"You see, boys, Delilah's welcome to do whatever the hell she wants in a little while." she said, dropping the twist on them with all the theatrics expected of a woman who dressed like it was still the late nineteenth century. "Because I'm cuttin' and quittin' to take care of some business with Jesse here and the rest of these fellows. All I need before I go is some of

money," another twist of her heel. "Some ammo, and the Condor. Then the rest of you can go ahead and do as you damn well please. Sound appealin'?"

She gave them all a venom grin and was met with a chorus of nods and hasty agreements with her offer. Delilah groaned something, and Ashe just turned that grin downwards towards her before snapping her fingers. Bob stepped forward and grabbed Delilah's ankle in one massive metal hand, and Ashe stepped away as she was hauled up into the air, swinging back and forth. She rasped some unheard curse, and Ashe leaned in closer with a chuckle.

"Say that again, Delilah, I couldn't hear you." Delilah rasped the same thing and Ashe just laughed. "Don't worry, sweety, I'm only taking my half. You and the kids can fight over the scraps, okay?"

Bob held Delilah in the air as Ashe set about getting the rest of the lieutenants in line, arranging for the Condor to be stocked and prepped and for the money to be transferred. Jesse stood to her right, looking imposing for her sake, and the rest of the team just sort of waited around in a semi-awkward silence.

"So…" Jesse hazarded a conversation starter, and Ashe looked over at him. "You're comin' with us?"

Ashe just laughed.

"You thought I'd let you rush off on some adventure without me?" she asked. "I told you, cowboy, you get a second chance. I'm not letting you ride this road alone… not without me there to make sure you don't crash and burn."

"Well, I always was a mess without you," he replied, grinning. "Alright then. Ashe and McCree, back on the road again. No idea where we're ridin', Ashe…"

"But we'll ride there together, Jesse." she finished, and they both smiled. Jesse felt a wave of nostalgia wash through him and he smiled; this was good. Being back with Ashe, fighting with her at his side… he hadn't felt like this in ages. He'd practically forgotten what it felt like to have somebody at his side he could trust, properly, completely. It felt safe, comfortable, yet it also thrilled him to no end. He felt young again.

It had been too long since he'd felt like that.

He turned to Jack, who was giving every inhabitant of the room not directly working with him the stink-eye. Stink-visor. Whatever.

"So, boss, where are we headin' first?" he asked.

"To find answers." Jack replied, looking at the Condor. "Africa. Numbani. Talon has power there, bases, information. It's a good place to start."

"Good as any, I suppose." Jesse agreed. "You… you sure you're alright with Ashe comin' along? I mean, I'm damned happy you're going with it so far, but she did try to kill us a day ago."

"You trust her." Jack said, looking him dead in the eye. "I trust your judgement, and I trust you."

Well, damn. Not the answer he was expecting. Jesse did see Jack glance over his shoulder at the woman in purple, and resolved to try and get some answers on that front soon. He was tired of not having a name or job description for that particular face.

 **IIIII/Author's Note/IIIII**

 **Well, this is where things can get a move chapter did not want to be written and I had to fight through it at the end there, but I happen to enjoy writing Ashe so it all worked out I suppose.**

 **Anybody wanna give me a composition analysis on a team of Ashe, McCree, Soldier, Brig and Sombra? Sounds like my average silver match these days, honestly.**

 **Yeah, I'm stuck in silver. I never said I was** _ **good**_ **at Moira.**

 **Sayonara, and I'll see you at the next one.**


End file.
